


Obvious

by virdant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, sherlock is a manipulative bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is given a case, and he'll do anything it takes to complete it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obvious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Oly).



> Written for Oly (prompt at bottom to prevent spoilers). Much love to Pann for her critique, and Mikachii for being willing to take time out of her studying to read it while I wrote it (oh so slowly). Dear Oly, I hope you like it. <3

_“Why did you this?”_

 _“It’s justice.”_

 _“You aren’t though. You’re just a regular person, like everybody else. You aren’t a judge. What gives you the right?”_

 _“Isn’t it obvious?”_

*

Mycroft visited late at night, when John was already asleep.

Sherlock ignored the knock.

There was a pause, and then Mycroft was unlocking the door and entering. “Thank you,” he said politely. He pocketed his illegal copy of the key.

“Go away,” Sherlock retorted, flinging himself onto the sofa. He didn’t play the violin though, since there had to be a reason why Mycroft came so late at night.

Mycroft set a folder onto the table as he sat down.

Sherlock didn’t look up. “No.”

“You should at least look at it before you turn it down.”

“Not interested.”

Mycroft leaned back. “You’ve taken cases for me before.” A pause. “Ah. John. Are you worried he would disapprove?”

He huffed. “Not interested,” he said again, but his eyes focused on the ceiling. “Not your lapdog.”

“Look at it,” Mycroft repeated. “Look at it and tell me if you don’t want it.”

Sherlock picked up the folder, making a show of rapidly flipping through the pages. He was about to set it down without actually reading it when he stopped, re-read the page, and then flipped to another page and read that.

Mycroft smiled.

“Don’t you have people to take care of this?” He looked up from the folder. “Don’t tell me that you’ve gotten so fat and lazy that you can’t even be bothered to hire your own investigators.”

“Why bother, when I know how much you enjoy legwork?”

Sherlock snorted. “Alright then.” He set the folder down. “I’ll take your case.”

Mycroft stood. “Thank you.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

He turned from where he was halfway out the door.

Sherlock looked up from the files. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

*

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock had a layer of papers covering every surface of the sitting room.

He stopped, stared, and said, “Huh,” before going to make tea.

He set a mug down next to Sherlock—it took some navigating to get to where Sherlock sat crouched on the sofa without touching a single paper—and then studied the thick layer with bemusement. “Case?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock took the tea without looking at it.

“What’s it about?”

Sherlock looked up. He studied John with narrowed eyes before saying, finally, “Thieves. Embezzlers. Murderers.”

“Bad people,” John agreed. “I’m off to the surgery.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, fingers pressed before his lips.

John shook his head and smiled as he left.

*

“London’s finest,” Sherlock said quietly long after John had left. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of endless possibilities. “Finest is right.”

What would John say if he knew what he was planning?

Bad people, John said today.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said aloud. Making sure he didn’t disturb the papers before him, he stood and padded up the stairs to John’s bedroom. Then he picked the locks on John’s desk drawers until he found the gun.

He didn’t touch it though. Instead, he sat on the chair and stared at it, thoughtfully.

He remembered a perfect shot through a window and into a dying man’s shoulder. He remembered a heel pressing down on the wound until the word Moriarty was shouted. He remembered the twist of triumph at the word.

He thought of the papers lying scattered across the sitting room like snow, whispering years of theft and murder.

“These aren’t very good men either, John,” Sherlock said to the gun. “Don’t you agree?”

Then he closed the drawers, locked them up, and slipped down to the sitting room to think.

*

Sherlock waited an hour before he texted John. _Come back at once. –SH_

 _I’m at work._

Sherlock knew that. Instead, he replied: _Require your assistance on a case. –SH_

 _I’m at work._

 _Could be dangerous. –SH_

 _Liar._

Sherlock blinked at his phone. He specifically preferred texting because it was easier to lie and not get caught. So how had John Watson known? He smiled, pleased. _Buy milk. –SH_

 _I’m at work. You can’t pick it up yourself?_

He didn’t reply to that text, just stared at the papers before him, planning.

 _Fine, I’ll pick it up when I get back._

Sherlock smiled. That gave him four more hours to prepare.

*

“Best be moving,” Sherlock said briskly as John walked up the stairs. He wrapped his scarf around his neck.

“I’m back,” John said redundantly, walking into the kitchen with a Tesco bag. It had a carton of milk in it, Sherlock could tell just by the weight of it in John’s hand. “Where are you going?”

Sherlock checked his phone. “Case. Definitely dangerous. Coming?”

John closed the fridge. “Sherlock,” he began.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John sighed, disappeared upstairs and came back down again. Sherlock didn’t need to look at John to know that he now had his gun.

“Coming?” Sherlock repeated, holding the door open.

John shook his head and followed Sherlock out.

*

Sherlock led the chase. John still didn’t know what they were investigating, what they were trying to find, but he was content to follow Sherlock’s lead.

Sherlock led him down the alleys of London, running them in circles until John was completely and utterly lost. For hours, they slunk around the streets, seemingly without any reason.

“Who are you trying to find?” John hissed.

“Hurry,” Sherlock replied, and they were hurrying down another alley, following a path that only Sherlock’s brain knew.

And then Sherlock disappeared.

“Sherlock!” John hissed.

No reply.

John huffed, digging in his pocket for his phone. “Pick up your phone, Sherlock,” he hissed as it rang.

It went to voice mail.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, re-dialing, “You bloody bastard. I swear when I find you I am going to _strangle_ you.”

It rang. Once. Twice.

“John!”

John whirled to the sound, dropping the phone and pulling out his gun. He barely took in the scene—Man attacking Sherlock with a knife, Sherlock dodging, Sherlock getting clipped by the knife on the side of the head—and his finger was on the trigger, his thumb flicking the safety, his entire body weight shifting to accommodate the recoil.

Sherlock carefully picked himself up off the ground, eying the body. “That was…” he said slowly, “quite good.”

*

Sherlock refused an ambulance. He also refused to call the police. Instead, he texted Mycroft— _Took care of one of them –SH_ —and went home with John, holding his scarf to his cheek where the knife had clipped it.

“I don’t think it needs stitches,” John said as he dabbed it with antiseptic.

Sherlock grumbled.

They ordered takeout; Sherlock picked at his food while John ate steadily, a constant stream of _this is why you do not chase after bad men alone, you get into danger and then I have to rescue you_ and _I can’t keep shooting people just because you have to prove you’re clever_ echoing in the flat.

“Mm,” Sherlock said, turning to stare at the papers still scattered around the room.

“Don’t do that again,” John said, halfway up the stairs to bed.

“Good night,” Sherlock replied.

 _I knew you would enjoy the case. –MH_

 _Piss off. -SH_

Sherlock threw his phone into a corner and slumped on the sofa. He closed his eyes, thinking:

John really was an excellent shot.

*

Two days later, when John was sleeping, Sherlock picked the locks to Lestrade’s flat.

“What do you want?” Lestrade demanded. He had a mug of coffee, a stack of paper, and a look that suggested that he hadn’t slept properly in a week.

“Stop worrying.” Sherlock unwound his scarf and slouched in an armchair. “I can hear you worrying all the way from Baker Street.”

Lestrade laughed. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

“No. I have a case.”

“I don’t have any cases for you, Sherlock. And you should stop picking my locks whenever you’re bored. You have John to entertain you now.”

“He’s asleep. Boring.”

“And you aren’t asleep because?”

“I have a case.” Sherlock said it slowly, like Lestrade was lacking in mental capacities. Compared to Sherlock, he definitely was.

Lestrade nodded and drank his coffee. “And you exist solely on your non-existent body fat when you’re on a case. Right.”

Sherlock glared.

“You’re here for a reason, aren’t you. What do you want? If you’ve already got a case, then I can’t see why you’re bothering me.”

Sherlock stuck out a hand. “Files.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “They’re confidential, Sherlock.”

“Let me see the files.”

He slapped the files into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock looked at them, and then looked back at Lestrade. “Why are you investigating this?”

“Because the police won’t.”

Sherlock looked down at the papers. “I thought you were the police.” Then he stared at Lestrade.

Lestrade stared steadily back. “Not on this case.”

*

John was still sleeping when Sherlock returned back to Baker Street.

Sherlock went into his room and closed the door, staring at the papers tacked all along the wall and floor. He traced the path of his next chase with his eyes, and then with his finger, stopping when he realized: here. This is where John will shoot.

Then he closed his eyes and let his mind drift for an hour, two hours, three hours, until John woke up and went to work, and he opened his eyes to prepare.

*

 _“You can’t just use me as your personal handgun! Go here. Shoot now. It doesn’t work that way!”_

 _“Can’t I?”_

 _“Sherlock.”_

 _“What do you think this is, John?”_

 _“I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know!”_

 _“Isn’t it obvious, John?”_

*

They chased four more men in the course of a month. Between sulking around alleys at night, John found himself visiting stores that were mere fronts for money laundering and victims of violence and missing relatives. And at the end of each chase, John drew his gun and pointed it at the man attacking Sherlock and fired.

“What is your case about anyways, Sherlock?” John placed slice of toast before Sherlock, who just stared at it. “You still haven’t said.”

“Complicated,” Sherlock said curtly. He didn’t eat it.

“It’s been a month.” A month of Sherlock almost getting killed and John having to shoot more and more people. He’s seen a bit too much of Mycroft’s assistant, a bit too much of corpses being bundled away into black cars to disappear, a bit too much secrecy.

Sherlock looked at him. “I’m almost done,” he says.

John shook his head and sighed. “I guess we’re going to go out tonight?”

Sherlock stared at him and then slowly nodded. “Could be dangerous,” he offered.

John closed his eyes. “I already have my gun.”

Sherlock smiled.

*

Sherlock disappeared halfway through the chase. Used to this, John sighed, gripped his gun, and waited.

Maybe this time it would be a bat instead of a knife, or a gun instead of a broken glass bottle.

Only this time, instead of Sherlock stumbling back with a stranger trying to kill him—one day, he was going to sit Sherlock down and demand to know what made random strangers on the street want to kill him—there was only a stranger, running, a desperate look in his eyes.

“Oh god,” the stranger said when he saw John. He stumbled, lurched to his feet and staggered forward. “You have to help me.”

John loosened his grip and reached forward to catch the man by the shoulders. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’m a doctor. What’s wrong?”

The man jerked, back and forth. “He’s going to kill me.”

“Who? Who’s going to kill you?”

“That… serial killer!” The man clutched at John’s forearms. “He’s been hunting down police officers for the past month. God knows why there’s been no news, the government has us covering the whole thing up, says we can’t let it get known that police are getting murdered. But he’s coming after me. I’m the only one left.”

“Only one left?” John echoed, and then the rest of the babbled sentence came through. “Hunting down police officers for the past month?” He slid to his knees, ignoring the dirt of the pavement, supporting the other man all the way.

“John,” Sherlock said.

John looked up. “What have you made me do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at him, and then glanced at the stranger. “Protect me.”

“From what?” John shook his head. “You had me shoot police officers.”

The stranger gasped and started to back away.

Sherlock stepped forward, blocking the path. “These aren’t good men,” he said simply. “Money laundering. Hiding evidence that suits them. Letting crime flourish where it will just to suit them.”

“What did Mycroft ask you to do?” John demanded. He stood up, stepped back, wiped his hands on his trousers and stared at the cowering man. Police officer. Not just a man.

Sherlock’s face was set. “What makes you think it was Mycroft?”

“Of course it’s Mycroft.” John laughed, feeling slightly hysterical. “His assistant who collects the body. His car to transport the body. Of course it’s Mycroft. What has he asked you to do? You’ve turned me into a murderer. After I kill him—” he jerked his chin towards the man, “are you going to put me into prison?” He shook his head. “You’ve protected your back quite well, Sherlock.”

“You aren’t going to prison.”

“You’ve made a murderer out of me.”

“And who knows that?” Sherlock jerked a chin to the man who was slowly trying to inch away. “Him? Who’ll listen to him? He’s dead.”

“No, Sherlock. He isn’t dead. He’s alive! And I’m not going to kill him.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You aren’t. No. Of course you aren’t.” He stepped forward, towards John.

“Why couldn’t you just gather the evidence and give it to the police?”

Sherlock smiled. “These are the police.”

“You murdered them.”

Sherlock leaned forward, his voice low in John’s ear, his breath warm against John’s cheek. “No. I fixed things.”

And John felt the weight of the gun being lifted from him, heard the safety click off, watched Sherlock line his sight.

Sherlock breathed in.

John closed his eyes.

And the man whose name he didn’t know died.

*

“You were magnificent,” Sherlock said, quietly, as they entered 221B. He had texted Mycroft in the cab: _Your case is finished. –SH_

“Don’t… don’t talk to me.” John shook his head, peeled off his jacket and whirled to glare at Sherlock. “You had me kill people!”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “And you’re upset about it.”

“Of course, I’m upset about it!”

“Do you want me to list their faults to placate your ridiculous guilt? Twenty crimes in the past year alone unsolved thanks to them erasing evidence. You were there when we questioned their victims. That one last week, he erased evidence to suit him, so he could steal from crime victims. Plenty of robberies didn’t exist until he decided it would be easy to steal from crime victims.” Sherlock paced furiously. “The one two weeks ago, did you know that he told rape victims that they deserved it? And they’ve been spreading their hooks into the police system. It’s a wonder that we have men like Lestrade.”

“You should have let Lestrade handle it.”

“Lestrade couldn’t handle it. They’re too deep in the system. He would get stopped at every corner.”

“And you could?” John shook his head. “You’re mad.”

“It was a case,” Sherlock said coolly.

“And what was this case? Murder a couple of policemen?”

Sherlock glanced at the papers scattered across the sitting room. Over the course of the month, he had slowly discarded the irrelevant ones, and now there was only pile next to the sofa. “Protect London.”

John jerked. “What?”

“You heard me, John.”

“Then…” John stared around the room. “Why did you do this?”

Sherlock smiled. He shook his head, and said, carefully, slowly, gently, as if John were a very young child who needed everything to be explained: “It’s justice.”

*

The next morning, John stalked out without saying anything. Sherlock slumped on the sofa and contemplated the ceiling until Mycroft texted back: _I knew that I could count on your care for this city –MH_ , and then he spent a good twenty minutes trading insults with Mycroft until Lestrade knocked and came up.

“Is there a case?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade ignored him and walked in. “The Chief Superintendent was murdered last night. You really wouldn’t have something to do with this, would you Sherlock?” Lestrade glanced around at the mess in the sitting room.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade from his position on the sofa and smiled.

Lestrade picked up a piece of paper from the floor. He glanced at it and then crumpled it in disgust. “You’ve been stealing all of my evidence.”

“It isn’t your evidence. According to the British Government, it doesn’t even exist.”

“Police officers are dying. Very important officers are dying, are being murdered—and it’s a serial killer; same type of gun, same sort of circumstances, but there’s no evidence.”

“I’m impressed you managed to get this much information to begin with.” Sherlock picks up a paper.

“Yeah well, I’m not as bloody useless as you might think.”

Sherlock smiled. “Too bad.”

“Too bad about what?”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. “This.”

And then he lit the papers on fire.

*

 _“This isn’t justice, Sherlock.”_

 _“Only according to you, John.”_

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: Sherlock is given a case which involves instigating justice upon high-level members of the police force, and decides that murder is the only justice. Preferably also almost gets killed in the process.


End file.
